


Cheat Day

by Rosetta (ARollingStone), Stuffy (HarveyDangerfield)



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Anal Sex, Belly Kink, Bottom Ford, Bottom Stan, Food Kink, M/M, Sibling Incest, Stuffing, Top Stan, top ford
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-10-06 19:49:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17351507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ARollingStone/pseuds/Rosetta, https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyDangerfield/pseuds/Stuffy
Summary: Stan accidentally breaks his diet rules, but Ford's honestly kind of into it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> listen this is just straight up and down stuffing kink if you're not into that please don't read it or leave nasty comments. this is just 23 pages of gratuitous porn and i dont need to explain myself
> 
> written with my spouse <3

An hour ago, Ford had said he'd be back twenty minutes ago. Maybe there's traffic on the highway, but Stan's stomach is doing flip flops against his rib cage, aching to have something in it. A little snack wouldn't hurt, and Ford had mentioned leaving something on the counter, so when Stan comes in, he glances over the snacks Ford had left.

 

They don't look like much. Orange slices, dipped in dark chocolate and sprinkled with sea salt. Some kind of hipster malarky, but Ford had thrown all of his toffee peanuts and even his own jelly beans, out of the house in his most recent attempt at getting Stan fit, so there's really not much else besides these and the fruit in the bowl on the table. Between the two, he'd rather have these.

 

Making sure the chocolate's set first, Stan dumps them all into a bowl, with Ford scolding him in the back of his mind about portion control, but he just shrugs it off. They're just oranges, and there aren't very many of them, so what's the harm?

 

Still, when he returns to the living room, Stan sets a limit for himself. Just a few pieces, and then he'll set the bowl aside and decide if he's still hungry enough need a couple more; but that plan falls apart pretty fast, when he's sitting comfortably in front of the television in his boxers, watching one of his favorite movies.

 

Despite his reservations, the orange slices are actually pretty good, and he eats them as fast as he might french fries, gobbbling them down one after another without really checking how many are left, so by the time his fingers hit the bottom of the bowl, his eyes go askew with surprise.

 

Cursing to himself, Stan heads back into the kitchen and quickly, while Ford is still gone, slices a few oranges and stuffs them into a tupperware container, which he shoves into the back of the fridge behind a jug of juice, so they're just visible; when Ford gets back home, he'll just tell him he put them away so they wouldn't melt.

 

After that, he sets to cleaning up the kitchen, tidying up a bit, and then he returns to park himself in front of the television, but there's one other thing he's concerned about, other than the missing snacks. Those orange slices are sitting pretty heavy on his stomach, and he's finding it hard to stop burping. Maybe it's because he'd eaten them so quickly, or perhaps he'd misjudged just how many were there, but his stomach isn't happy with the results either way. That's going to be a bit harder to hide from Ford, but if he just powers through dinner and keeps his cool, everything should be fine.

 

Ford arrives home a few minutes later, giving Stan only a precious few minutes to work on digesting those orange slices, which his body gets to work on noisily, betraying his glut. Nevertheless, dinner does smell amazing, Ford had gone through the trouble of going to a local pasta place just a few miles out of town and picking up a few customized dishes, intending to have leftovers for the next couple of days.

 

He gives Stan a smooch on his way through the living room into the kitchen, and Stan shuffles after him nervously, wondering if his cover will be blown. He knows even if it is the worst he'll be looking at is a scolding, but still... any amount of disapproval from Ford is embarrassing and barbed.

 

Of course Ford notices immediately. He's no fool. But he also sees how ashamed Stan looks of himself in the doorway to the kitchen, and when he hears his brother's belly squeak, he can't help but be charmed by the redness of his ears. It's flattering, that he'd torn through a snack Ford wasn't even sure he would like in just a matter of an hour, though it definitely has ruined his dinner. Or it would have... but Ford decides then and there to play a little game with him and teach him a lesson at the same time.

 

"You sound hungry," he comments on the gurgle of Stan's tummy as he works on plating a generous helping of pesto rigatoni, with two thick slices of garlic bread layered thickly with cheese, and two heavy, topping-laden slices of bruschetta on the side before setting it down on Stan's side of the table.

 

Stan looks down at the plate, a mixture of emotions crossing his face. He scratches over the crest of his tummy, which gives a betraying little growl, but thankfully Ford seems to have mistaken it for hunger; however he's having a hard time hiding just how red his ears have gone.

 

But he clears his throat and swaggers over to the table, sitting down with less care than he probably should have, given his aching stomach. "Yeah, I'm starvin'."

 

He proclaims this loudly, but he's still just staring at the plate, wondering if Ford had forgotten his diet, or if this is a special treat for being so good recently. A pang of guilt sets into his stomach, along with the ache already present and he picks up a piece of garlic bread, piles some noodles on and crunches into it without too much hesitation.

 

Ford sets down a glass of wine for himself and a cold beer for Stan, and sits across from him with a much more modest portion of marinara-drenched angel hair, with just one slice of garlic bread and bruschetta for himself.

 

"Did you sample the oranges before you put them away?" Ford can't help but tease him a little bit as he uses his spoon to twirl his pasta and take a bite. "I might have added too much salt, I've never made them before."

 

Stan pauses, suspecting he might have been caught, but if he lets it get the better of him, he'll start sweating and while Ford knows all his tells, his goose will really be cooked if his brow goes wet.

 

 "Uuh yeah, pfft. They were alright." Stan waves his hand through the air and takes another bite of garlic bread, the noodles already feeling like a heavy addition to his pre-dinner 'snack.'

 

"If ya ask me, though they could use more chocolate. You were kinda skimpy with it, but I guess that's the point of a diet, huh?" Stan chuckles nonchalantly, but his stomach gives a whine, and his cheeks turn red.

 

Ford loves watching Stan go all squirmy and embarrassed, caught in a lie and trying desperately to backpedal out of it. He feels powerful and secret, wielding a great, heavy power over his brother, while Stan tries in vain to pull a fast one over on him in return.

 

"I can relent, I'll put a little extra chocolate next time," he says. "When you only eat two or three at a time, it's not so bad."

 

"Well, I only ate a couple--" Stan cuts himself off before he says something incriminating. "I uh, put the rest in the fridge so they wouldn't get all gooey on the counter, gets kinda hot in here durin' the day. Oregon's kinda muggy in the fall."

 

Small talk, not a great way to start dinner off, but he can feel Ford's eyes on him, there's something catlike about the way he's watching him, Stan can't quite put his finger on it; part of him wonders if Ford's onto him, but he couldn't be. There's no evidence otherwise, he's probably just being paranoid.

 

After finishing off the first piece of garlic bread, Stan sets in on eating the pasta--if he can get a good portion of it down, maybe he can claim he doesn't want to overeat, and get out easy; but after four or five bites out of the bowl, his gut is starting to strain at his shirt a bit, and it's protesting so loudly there's no way Ford can't hear it.

 

He thinks for a moment, maybe he could get out of it if he claimed he has an upset stomach, but Ford might inquire why and catch wind of his shameful gorging, so Stan just abandons the pasta for a bit to give his stomach a break, and takes a few swigs of beer, but even that's going to prove to be problem with all the hoppy fizz.

 

A few minutes of companionable silence pass as Ford eats his pasta and watches Stan whenever he can get away with looking at him without being seen. His shirt seems tighter than usual, a fact which makes Ford's own belly clench with appreciation. There's an instinctive drive in him for the concept of overeating, decades spent gorging whenever he could just to survive has triggered a pavlovian response in his lizard brain. Overeating = bountiful supplies = safety = desirable. Just the idea of Stan eating too much sets a pulse going between his thighs.

 

"I thought you were hungry," he finally comments after a handful of minutes have passed, and Stan has barely finished half of his bowl.

 

"Uuh, I am." Stan growls, and he's hasty in picking up his fork, nearly dropping it on the floor as he fumbles to catch it. "I was just savorin' it, ya know? Eatin' slower, like ya told me."

 

But as he looks down at his bowl, his stomach churns angrily and he can practically feel his shirt tightening by the minute. Oh, he's made a grave mistake, but Stanley Pines isn't one to shirk from a challenge, especially when his ass is on the line. If Ford finds out he ate all of those oranges in one go, well he doesn't want to think about it.

 

Digging his fork in, Stan takes a bite that's far too big for his mouth, but he commits, chewing thickly and watching Ford on occasion, but mostly he glances out the window at the forest at sunset, trying to take his mind off of his aching belly for even a minute. His hand is itching to rub away some of the pain, but he knows if he does, Ford will catch on immediately.

 

After he's managed to chew down the enormous bite he'd taken, Stan sits back in his seat with a soft groan, the angle drawing his button down flannel over the crest of his tummy so tight that the button near the top strains and shows a swatch of fuzzy skin beneath. He takes another long drink of beer, hoping that maybe the fizz will help, but it just succeeds in producing an obscenely loud belch.

 

Ford's jaw flexes as he feels another hard pulse between his legs, and he shifts his hips against his seat, pressing himself down against the cushion just for a whisper of friction and pressure. "Well, I'm glad to hear that," he says, taking another bite of his own pasta, and he can't help but tease just a little more. "You know, I'm proud of you for sticking to your diet. I know it hasn't been the most enjoyable for you, but it'll pay off, I promise. You'll feel so much better-- you're already feeling good, aren't you?"

 

His eyes flick up to look at Stan over his glasses, with his chin pulled in just a hair, and he licks a spot of sauce from the corner of his lips.

 

There's really no mistaking that glance for anything other than heated. Stan chuckles, scrubbing the back of his neck and takes another swig of beer to steel his nerves, then picks his fork back up and takes a bite so he doesn't have to answer immediately, his face red from his hairline to the tip of his bulbous nose.

 

He takes another sip of beer and belches again, his gut feels stretched now, heavy in his lap. "Yeah, I feel pretty good."

 

The way Ford is looking at him draws a pulse into his stomach, shooting down between his legs. He shifts in his seat slightly, spreading his thighs a little so his stomach has a bit of room, and he tries to be discreet about reaching down to unbutton his jeans, hoping the table cloth and his shirt tails will hide it.

 

"Good," Ford stands up from the table then and leans over Stan to press a kiss to his cheek, his palm resting on the side of Stan's belly just for a second, right at the crest of his rib cage, just far enough to the side that it doesn't give away the fullness of Stan's stomach, but close enough that it makes him sweat. "I'll treat you-- we'll call it a cheat day," he says as he picks up Stan's half-empty bowl and refills it, just as full as before, setting it back down in front of him.

 

Stan really has to resist the urge to yell, he bites back his tongue, looking down at the plate, heavy shoulders falling. "Aw c'mon Sixer, ya don't wanna go ruinin' my diet, ya know how I can be--fallin' off the wagon's always the start of a somethin' bigger for me, why don't we just call it done with the one plate, I'm already feelin' full anyways."

 

"Already full?" Ford leans against the side of the table on one hip, crossing his arms over his chest and pulling the fabric of his sweater tight across his chest and biceps. "The Stanley I know is never full."

 

"I could eat more." Stan says quickly, though he's definitely sweating now, his whole face red. "You just always tell me to stop eatin' when I'm not hungry anymore, and ya know, I didn't wanna overdo it, is all."

 

He gives a nervous laugh and picks up one of the slices of bruchetta, shoving it into his mouth before he can say some other stupid thing and get himself into even more trouble. While he chews, Stan's eyes flicker around the room, but they keep coming back to Ford and the lines of his body.

 

"I insist," Ford says, nudging the plate closer to the edge of the table, closer to Stan, and he gives his brother a heated look through the lenses of his glasses. If the jig is up, Ford hasn't made it clear yet, but the scrutiny of his gaze is getting harder and harder to brush off.

 

Stan licks the inside of his cheek and glances away. He's so close to cracking, just breaking down and telling Ford the truth, but it's a matter of pride at this point, so with a thick swallow, he picks up his fork and twirls another hefty bite of pasta around the tines before stuffing it into the pocket of his cheek.

 

Sweat is rolling down his forehead now, brows pinned together in a look of absolute agony, which he is having a hard time fending off now; his belly aches to be rubbed, relieved even a little but, he keeps eating; it's silly, quite frankly, that he's giving himself an internal pep talk to keep his stamina up, like the whole affair is one of his boxing matches.

 

He just has to tough it out.

 

After several more bites, the pile of pasta is a little smaller, but his gut seems to have expanded three sizes, though that might just be his imagination. The flannel shirt he's wearing is stretched tight across his midsection now, heavy and round in his lap, bearing down on his pelvic floor; a worse embarrassment is how hard he is. It's a combination of things really, but Ford's glances aren't helping him in the slightest, so his jeans are doubly tight now.

 

The last of his beer is drained, and Stan gives a series of unsatisfying, wet belches as the last of the air is squeezed out of his stomach, leaving only the compact ball of food sitting heavy in his guts.

 

"You done? I could clean up the dishes." Stan says, noting Ford's empty plate. His brother is watching him like a hawk now.

 

"No, by all means, finish your dinner," Ford says, though he does move back to his side of the table. The bowl is only half empty now, though with the refill that's an entire bowl of pasta-- generously portioned-- heaped on top of his glut from before, four hefty oranges' worth of slices, as well as an entire bag of chocolate chips, and a bottle of beer. He can see Stan's skin through his stretched buttons now, and it's making his cock ache, trapped against his thigh in his jeans. He takes another bite of his own pasta, but his appetite has shifted now to something else entirely, and he doesn't even bother trying to hide his gaze from his brother anymore.

 

Stan keeps biting his lip, and glancing around the room, as if jumping out the window or rushing off to the bathroom is an option. If he leaves his plate unguarded for even a minute, there's a chance Ford will just pile more on top of it, and he can't have that. Besides that, if he gets up now, there'll be no hiding the massive tent in his jeans.

 

So he just picks up his fork, and takes several more bites, leaning over his plate and holding his fork like a caveman to really get in deep and try to swallow down as much of it as possible without stopping, and he does a fairly good job of it too--after seven or eight big, quick bites however, his gut is straining, groaning with protest and he's forced to sit back before all of his hard work comes up.

 

Panting now, Stan glances at Ford, who's still cool as cucumber, juxtaposed to him--the sweating, red faced, breathless mess he is and that's when he breaks.

 

"Ah shit, Ford . . . ya got me." Stan looks away, he couldn't possibly hold eye contact while making his confession. "I ate all those snacks ya made--I was hungry, and I couldn't wait for dinner. You were takin' so long, and I was starvin'!" Frowning deeply, he bites back his frustration and mutters. "I didn't want ya to find out, 'cuz I knew it'd be embarrassin' and lookit where that's gotten me."

 

Stan stifles a wet burp behind his fist and chuckles, shaking his head. Drawing his eyes back to Ford, he shrugs, "Whaddya want. Ya know I never had any self control."

 

Where he might have been expecting a lecture, instead he gets a wide, almost smug smirk from Ford as he stands up from the table again and crosses over to Stan, lowering one hand to rest against his heavy, stuffed gut, and he gives it a slow rub in a wide circle.

 

"I know," he murmurs, leaning down to kiss up the side of Stan's neck, scraping his teeth over his earlobe and sucking on it gently. "You're not nearly as sneaky as you think you are."

 

"Ahhhgh . . . feels good, you touchin' me." Stan growls, finally relaxing for the first time since they'd started eating. His belly gurgles softly under Ford's fingers, and he looks up at him with sleepy eyes. "Whaddya mean? Was it all the sweatin' or the red ears that tipped me off? Oy, I knew I wasn't foolin' ya after awhile, ya got a real fuckin' smug face, Sixer."

 

"Let's go to the couch," Ford chuckles, offering Stan a hand up to his feet. "I'm not finished with you."

 

He lifts Stan's plate again, just a few bites away from being empty-- and pours the last of the pesto pasta back into it. It doesn't fill as full as before, but it sits even with the lip, and he sets another two pieces of garlic bread on top. He can already see Stan sweating at the sight of it, but he reaches out to give his ass a pinch. "Go on, go get comfortable. I'll be right there."

 

He gets up, stretching his arms over his head, his shirt rucking up just a little and it stays there--he doesn't bother pulling it down, and instead heads back into the living room, thankful for the comfort of the couch and the ability to unzip his pants. While he waits on Ford, he just lets his hand wander lazily over the curve of his stomach, trying to subdue some of the cramps there.

 

Ford comes into the room a moment later, carrying two already opened beers in one hand by the necks of their bottles, and the bowl in the other. He sets both of them down on the table beside the couch, and then straddles Stan's lap without hesitation. He leans in to capture his mouth in a heated kiss, deftly undoing the buttons of his too-tight shirt until his belly is free, sitting in his lap in a hard sphere. Ford wedges his hands beneath his belly and lifts, the soft pudge underneath moving in his palms until he can lay it in his own lap like a shelf, hot on top of his thighs-- and Stan can feel his cock give a hard pulse beneath its heft.

 

"Got ya all worked up, huh? I remember how ya used to look at me when I swallowed hot dogs whole in eleventh grade. That always got ya off, didn't it?" He laughs, leaning down to nuzzle against Ford's neck, then he returns lips to his mouth and deepens the kiss, hands heavy on Ford's hips; he can't help but grind up against his ass, Ford's cock rubbing heatedly against the underside of his belly the while.

 

Ford groans lowly, a sharp spike of pleasure stabbing up into his stomach at the friction and the memory in equal parts. He breaks away from the kiss, panting and flushed, and reaches out to grab the bowl of pasta. "Do you remember when we went to that potluck at school and you ate your weight in crab macaroni?" he rumbles, grinding down in Stan's lap as he piles a healthy amount of pasta onto the garlic bread, and offers it out for a bite. "Because I remember."

 

"How could I forget?" Stan takes an all-too-big bite of bread, stuffing it into his cheek so he can talk. "I remember you rode me until you were sore the first chance ya got." He laughs, and swallows down the bite after a couple of chews. "You always liked watchin' me eat."

 

Ford's breathing a little harder now, and his cock jumps again, pressing against the underside of Stan's belly as his cheeks and ears go very, very warm with the memory. He bites his lower lip as he feeds Stan the heavy slice of bread, bite by bite until it's gone. Now that he's not hiding the state of his gut anymore, and now that it's not trapped in his shirt anymore, it's easier for him to continue. He doesn't have to suck it in or slouch to hide it, in fact the more he relaxes his stuffed gut against Ford's (infuriating) washboard stomach, the hotter Ford seems to become.

 

"God, Stanley," he whispers as he feeds several forkfuls of pasta to his brother. Sure, this is undoing his diet pretty severely... but overindulging for one meal won't ruin everything. Besides, it's been far too long since Ford has been able to provide like this, and far too long since he was able to watch his brother stretch out with his belly arching skyward.

 

"Is this gettin' to ya?" Stan asks, ducking his head to takes another mouthful--he talks with his mouth stuffed, he's never cared about manners. "I can feel your cock pressing up against my gut--you're so hard, Sixer."

 

He has to chide him a little, turn the tables just a bit because Stan is coming apart at the seams, each forkful undoing a stitch here or there, his belly so full he's having troubel breathing now; but he continues to eat, slurping up noodles noisily, and taking bites of bread with equal gusto, taking down the bowl one bite at a time.

 

Stan's dirty talk has Ford's cock responding in kind, leaping and digging against Stan's stomach desperately, and the older twin gives a soft groan of approval. He is, he absolutely is  hard, and it is getting to him. His hands shake slightly with need as he feed his brother, and he's outright panting now as he watches him take big swallows of half-chewed pasta just to show off.

 

He gives Stan a break and reaches out for one of the sweating beers instead, lifting it to his mouth to let Stan drink. He gives him a few heavy swallows to clear his throat before feeding him another few bites of pasta, alternating with the cool drink every couple of mouthfuls to keeps his mouth from getting bored or tired of the texture-- all the while grinding his hips into the underside of his heavy, full gut.

 

Stan squeezes his eyes shut as he drinks, the sweat dripping down his forehead mirrored by the condensation on the glass bottle. He's panting now too, but he keeps his bite big and eager, sometimes he doesn't even chew at all, but swallows down whole bites of pasta, without choking. Seems like he still has that down pat, a talent he'd practiced when they were young so he could swallow worms and crickets in one go for quarters from their horrified, yet fascinated, classmates.

 

The fork is beginning to scrape the bottom of the bowl now, with each bite. A few pieces of garlic bread and some straggling noodles remain on the China dish, which Stan eats between gulps of beer, which makes him burp.

 

His stomach sits heavy on top of Ford's thighs now, groaning angrily--he's doubled in size at least and that crevice that Ford is pressed into is so hot and moist with sweat that rutting against it feels heavenly.

 

"What're ya gonna do with me when all this is gone? Feed me the whole fridge?" Stan teases, his hand pressed to the small of Ford's back now. "Or are ya just gonna ride me again--I know you're still that horny little nerd, past all that self control, Sixer."

 

Ford's pelvic floor clenches up powerfully at those words and he sucks his lips into his mouth, his nostrils flaring with pleasure as he feeds the last of the pasta to Stan on top of the last scrap of garlic bread, and then reaches out to grab the other beer to hold it to his mouth.

 

"Something like that," he says, but this time he doesn't lower the bottle.

 

Stan wets his lips, then seals his mouth around the neck of the bottle and chugs. That hand at the small of Ford's back presses him tight against Stan's stomach, making sure he can feel each pull of the bottle hit his stomach with a glug; by relaxing his throat, he drains the bottle with absolutely no breaths between, and when it's empty, he sits back with a loud, wet burp and wipes his mouth with the back of his forearm, looking at Ford with a heated, hungry expression.

 

"Well, I'm done eatin'." He grunts. "How about you? Ya got somethin' else for me, or do ya wanna take care of that problem pressed up against me?"

 

Ford groans and presses a hot, wet kiss to Stan's tired mouth, and he grabs his gut on both sides to rut against the underside. His own jeans are still closed tight around his hips, but the front is tented out severely over his aching cock, and he rubs his hands over Stan's heavy, round globe of a belly.

 

"My god, Stanley," he gasps out, his lips shiny and slack with pleasure, and for a moment it seems like he'd be content to just hump his belly to completion as he drops his forehead to Stan's shoulder.

 

Honestly, Stan wouldn't be upset about that--he loves just watching Ford lose himself to pleasure. It's such a sharp contrast to his usually stiff, orderly personality. Stan knows just what to say, and when to say it to get his gears moving, though right now it doesn't take much because the weight of his heavy stomach is doing most of the work.

 

Hand to the small of his back, Stan bends his head, cradling the back of Ford's in one hand and kisses him on the shell of his ear, then his temple and the top of his head, placing loving, slow pecks here and there as he just delights in Ford rutting against him; he lifts his hips lazily, grinding the weight of his prick against Ford's ass in kind, his breathing heavy on his brother's ear.

 

"That feels good, doesn't it?" Stan grumbles. "Rubbin' your achey cock right there--that spot's hot and soft, isn't it Stanford? Mmh, I love feelin' ya up against me . . . "

 

Ford pants openly against his shoulder, gritting his teeth as he feels his lower belly clench up in the first signs of an impending orgasm. But he slows his hips, biting his lip and letting out a soft, nasally whimper as his jeans pinch him painfully.

 

"Lay down," he swallows thickly, standing up from Stan's lap on wobbling thighs. He unbuttons his jeans and very nearly breaks the zipper with the force that his cock weighs down on it, and he quickly steps out of both them and his briefs, leaving them in a pile on the floor. His cock is so hard that it sways from side to side as he moves, quickly fetching their hidden living room lube from the tv stand.

 

He pauses for a moment just to look at Stan, laying down with his back on the cushions, one leg propped up and the other on the floor, his cock tenting out his boxers in the open fly of his jeans, and his gut sticking straight up in the air, heavy, hard and round. Ford curses softly in his throat as he tugs Stan's jeans off his legs for comfort before taking up his spot in his lap again, impatiently threading his cock through the hole at the front of his boxers, his own length brushing against it and leaking heavily across the girth.

 

"I gotta prep ya." Stan grunts, taking the lube from Ford. "Do ya think you can last that long? If not, it might be better if I just jerked us both off."

 

"Please," Ford gasps, sinking both his hands into Stan's gut just to feel how hard it is, and his cock leaps again. "Fingers-- _fuck me_ , Stanley, get me ready. I need to ride you."

 

Stan groans as those fingers sink into him, but he obliges Ford--after his fingers have been generously applied with lube, he slides one easily into Ford's hole. They fuck often enough that he isn't as tight as he used to be, but he still needs some prep to take Stan's cock.

 

The slick sound of his fingers gliding in and out fills the room, punctuated by his own groans and Ford's breathless, whining sobs. Their cocks bob and rub together while his brother rides his hand; but Stan isn't slow or agonizing this time, where he might be others. The steady leak of Ford's cock tells him he doesn't have much time before he blows his lid, so Stan quickly adds a second finger.

 

"That's it, c'mon." Stan encourages, watching Ford with soft eyes as he comes apart, both hands braced on Stan's gut. He keeps one hand on his hip, two fingers buried deep, stretching him wide in preparation for what's to come.

 

"Oh god--" he gasps, his shoulders hitching up towards his red ears. Stan doesn't probe his fingers deep enough to  tag his prostate, a fact which Ford is grateful for, because he's wound up so tight that he'd blow within just a few moments. His thighs shake and his hips jerk involuntarily, rocking back on those thick fingers eagerly.

 

"Please, Stanley," he grits out, leaning forward and bracing his hands on his chest, squeezing his soft pecs fondly. "Please, I'm not going to last-- let me have it."

 

"Okay . .  okay, Stanford." His voice cracks slightly, and easing his fingers out of Ford, he helps him move a little; then taking himself in hand, he presses the thick head of his cock against Ford's knot and buries himself inside.

 

Stars erupt in the corners of Stan's vision and he growls long, and low as Ford sinks down. "Holy Moses you feel so good."

 

Ford shouts out loud as he sinks down on top of Stan's cock, using his knees as leverage to push down all the way, until his ass is as close to his brother's thighs as it can get without clipping through him. His head falls back and he moans, loud, open-mouthed and wanton, rocking his hips in quick, shallow circles immediately just to feel the way that cock tugs at his rim.

 

"God!" he shouts, his teeth clicking together and chattering, a hot throb shooting up the length of his cock, and he drags his hands down Stan's chest to his gut, gripping the overstuffed sides and sinking his fingers into the thin, stretched-out layer of fat on top as he gulps desperately to slick his dry throat. "You're so full, Stanley..." he groans, rubbing his hands over that tight globe, pushing against it just to watch it bounce and wobble back up to its full girth.

 

"Stuffed." Stan agrees with a chuckle. "You did that, Stanford."

 

Stan watches him with an almost reverent expression. He wasn't lying about that, witnessing Ford in the throes of pure bliss, each time he bears witness to his brother falling apart, it's like a spiritual experience, cathartic in its way; not to mention, seeing Ford coming undone at his touch is one hell of a boost to his self esteem.

 

The thrusts he gives are shallow for now, just letting Ford feel out how fast or slow he wants to go, but that doesn't mean that Stan is devoid of motion; his fingers slide up under Ford's turtle neck, rucking it up over his stomach, revealing the hard line of his abdomen and the swell of his chest, his body a reminder of Ford's incredible self discipline. It's in stark contrast to Stan's heavy gut, being molded between Ford's hands, gurgling and heavy and so very big.

 

He lets his thumbs brush over Ford's nipples, lightly enough that it won't get him off immediately. Rolling his hips up experimentally, he gets some friction going between them, just rocking with Ford for now, easy and slow.

 

"You feel good?" He asks, knowing the answer. "Ya look good. Ya look like you're about to pass out."

 

"Ahh!! Fuck!" he grabs Stan by the wrists but doesn't move his hands away from his chest. His thighs clench and tremble around Stan's hips as a powerful wave of pleasure rattles him to the bones, nearly shooting him off then and there. His cock leaks thick and clear over Stan's gut, but when the pulses cease he finally unsticks his jaw again and releases Stan's wrists to grab his gut again instead.

 

And then he starts to move, with purpose. He lifts himself up and drops down, immediately moaning out loud with every hard stroke he fucks himself with. His head hands low, his neck weak with pleasure as the friction builds hotly between his legs, Stan's cock dragging inside of him like a hot poker. "Stanley-- Stanley--" he gasps out, his belly shuddering with increasing pleasure. "Oh _god_ , Stanley--"

 

"Agh Ford . . ." Stan mutters, his belly heaving with every breath he takes now. He uses the position of his leg propped up on the couch to get some leverage, pushing with his foot flat on the floor; his muscles feel like jelly, there's so much food in his gut he just wants to go to sleep, but Ford's body feels so good around him.

 

His brushing fingers become more insistent, rolling the rosy buds of Ford's nipples between them, careful and delicate with his touches because he knows how sensitive his brother's chest is. Alternating that his hands discover the plain of Ford's stomach, the tough core of his body, hands constantly roaming, touching him all over.

 

The bouncing of Ford's body atop his brings a series of low, wet burps up to the surface, his tummy continually churning now. Stan's laid back against the couch, his mouth open, head back and his body relaxed and at ease, moving in steady time with Ford.

 

Ford feels his ass clench on every downstroke, pleasure thrumming through him in hot waves. He drops his weight over Stan's cock, his skin clapping mutely against his brother's clothed thighs as he takes him in to the hilt with every hard slam of his hips over Stan's lap.

 

Pleasure builds in his stomach, and when Stanley brushes his thumb over his nipple again he cracks, his thighs going tight around his hips and his fingers sinking into his full gut as he rides out his climax. He barely has the wherewithal to hold himself up while he hollers, just to give Stan enough room to thrust up into him and chase his own pleasure as Ford comes, untouched, over his brother's hard dome of a belly.

 

He never has to worry about falling when he's like this, lost in the thick of it--Stan's hands are immediately at his back, keeping him steady as Ford slouches over his stomach; the powerful spasms of Ford's orgasm draws a shout out of Stan, and soon enough, he's falling apart too, coming so hard and fast his vision goes black for a few moments.

 

Stan fucks Ford through their collective orgasms, riding every last jerk and jolt for its worth, until they're both spent and sweaty, shaking against each other and absolutely blissed out.

 

He lets his breathing return to normal before he speaks again, though he's still panting just a little. "That brought back some old memories, huh Stanford?" he laughs fondly.

 

Ford catches himself on his hands, gripping Stan's shoulders, his entire body shaking with aftershocks, his ass clenching over Stan's cock with involuntary spasms, but he manages a shaky smile, followed by a soft moan. "You aren't kidding..." he gasps out, just trying to regain his breath.

 

Despite the pressure on his belly, Stan holds Ford in his arms, kissing the top of his head lovingly as he comes down, one broad hand rubbing slow circles over his back. "You okay, Sixer? Need some help off? I can run ya a bath."

 

Ford laughs, the sound reedy in his throat. "I think you should rest, after that," he says, giving Stan's belly a fond rub. "I know you're probably sleepy after all that. I'll take a shower, you rest up."

 

He climbs off of Stan's lap with a soft noise in his throat as he slips out of him, and he grabs the blanket off the back of his brother's chair to fluff out over him. But before he leaves, he bends down to pepper a few kisses over Stan's cheek and neck, and then walks boldly out of the room, buck nude, in the direction he knows Stan will be able to watch him go.

 

Ford isn't wrong--he's exhausted, but he always needs to make sure he's okay after they've had sex, it can put him in a weird headspace sometimes. Watching him go, Stan puts his fingers in his mouth and gives a loud wolf whistle before pulling the blanket up to his chest and drifting off in easy comfort.


	2. Chapter 2

Waking up the next morning, Stan shuffles off to the bathroom to have a piss and a shower. He cleans up nice, but his stomach is still heavy, though the weight is deeper in his gut today. After getting dressed in a nice t-shirt and jeans, Stan tosses on his leather jacket and is just about to head outside when the smell of food cooking wafts from the kitchen, and he follows the smell.

 

He finds Ford there, busy over the stove. Despite the weight in his stomach, it produces a hungry growl at the smell of fresh food; an egg or two couldn't hurt, he needs to eat after all, Ford would want him to keep up his protein intake, with how often he's been exercising now.

 

So coming up behind Ford, he wraps his arms around his waist and rests his head on a shoulder. His still-swollen belly is pressed right up against his back as he whispers, "Good mornin', Sixer."

 

Ford feels an immediate, hot drop in his belly as he feels Stan's stomach press against his back, and he swallows hard, clearing his throat before he trusts himself to speak. He reaches up to cup Stan's stubbly cheek and turns to catch his mouth at an angle. "Stanley," he murmurs, rubbing his thumb behind Stan's ear. "You haven't shaved... itchy."

 

Nuzzling him softly, Stan lets his stubbly cheek drag across Ford's. "Nope. Didn't feel like it."

 

He catches Ford's fingers against his lips and nibbles a little before pressing a kiss to his cheek, then his neck, working his way down with his hands glued to his brother's hips. "What're ya makin'? It smells good."

 

"A little of this and a little of that..." Ford hums, smiling smugly to himself and tipping his head a bit to the side to give Stan's roaming mouth room to explore his neck. "You didn't think I was finished with you after last night, did you?"

 

Stan's lips pause, and he looks down into the skillet, then back at Ford, chuckling low under his breath. "Well, I did, but I can see now that I underestimated ya. You gonna feed me the whole kitchen now, Sixer? I'm still full from last night, but I bet you could cram some more in there with a little concerted effort."

 

"I might be fixing to," Ford says, pushing eggs and sausage around in his skillet. "You have your jacket on-- were you in a hurry to go somewhere? Looking like that?" he sets the spatula down in order to turn around and take a handful of the side of Stan's still slightly round tummy. It growls immediately at the jostle, and Ford feels it vibrate against his palm.

 

"You think anyone would notice?" Stan looks down, watching Ford's hands smooth over his belly, his ears and cheeks dusting red at the touch. He's still quite big, not as swollen as he had been last night, but it's noticeable under the shift of his dark shirt. "I was just goin' to get some parts for a project I'm workin' on."

 

"The project can wait," Ford says, grabbing Stan by the lapels of his jacket and giving him a hard kiss on the mouth. "Take your jacket off and sit at the table, I'll fix you a plate."

 

Stan slides the leather jacket off and drapes it over the chair, which he promptly sits in. It creaks under his weight, which Stan notices immediately, a bit of sweat forming on his brow. He couldn't have gained weight overnight, so he assumes he's just working himself over nothing when he pictures the chair legs giving out. Still, the image of himself sprawled out on the floor like a buffoon is a hard one to shake.

 

Humming to himself, Ford puts together a plate for Stan. He's wearing that stupid bunsen burner apron, his sweater rolled up to his elbows, but otherwise polished with slacks and dress shoes (how Ford can comfortably wear shoes indoors all the time is a mystery to Stanley) He walks over to the table a moment later and sets down a plate heavy with no less than six fried eggs, what must amount to a quarter pound combined of sausage and bacon, and four thick pancakes drenched with syrup (low sugar low fat, of course. As if that would make a difference)

 

Ford gives Stan's cheek a kiss, lays a hand on his belly just for a moment, and then returns to the stove to resume his work, glancing at Stan from the corner of his eye.

 

"You weren't kiddin' about not bein' done with me." Stan laughs, giving a low whistle, looking over the plate. Where to start first. He decides on the eggs, cutting into one and drawing a line of congealed yolk across the plate, which he sops up with some butter toast after slipping the bit of egg into his mouth. He chews thoughtfully for a bit, and skips around, slipping a sausage into his mouth.

 

Honestly, he'd considered skipping breakfast, just to give his stomach some relief after the massive feast from last night, but there's no rest for him today.

 

He dips a sausage into maple syrup, and shoves practically the whole thing into his mouth. "This is a good starter." his voice is alight with humor. "But knowin' you there's more than this."

 

"Knowing me?" Ford bites the tip of his tongue playfully at Stan. "Whatever are you implying, Stanley?" he slaps a couple thick slices of bacon down in the skillet and pours a bit of pancake batter over them so they sizzle and cook together, and he steps away from the oven to let it brown. Coming to Stan's side, he leans down to rub over Stan's low-hanging, heavy tummy. His body had spent the night working everything lower in his system, leaving his stomach empty and ready to be filled back up to the brim. He'll feel twice as full when he's done, stuffed from end to end until he has to lean back and waddle like a pregnant woman.

 

"Yeah, knowin' you." Stan sits back, chewing as he looks up at Ford. His tummy feels particularly heavy today, but breakfast doesn't feel like an impossible task.

 

"You like to push me--and ya like to push my buttons, too." Leaning up, he presses a greasy kiss to Ford's cheek, leaving behind a smudge. "And as sly and coy as you can be, I just got a feelin' you've got more planned than just a simple breakfast."

 

Ford's nose wrinkles and he wipes the grease from his cheek with a playful sneer. "Stanley Pines. If I didn't know any better, that would sound accusatory," he smirks. "You'll find out if you finish, won't you?"

 

He returns to the stove, keeping one eye on Stan with a watchful gaze. He doesn't even bother to  hide the fact that he's full-on watching his brother eat, and even adjusts the crotch of his slacks in full view as heat begins to pool south, spurred on by thoughts of how very full Stan must be feeling already, with the extra weight sitting in his lap.

 

"Maybe I am accusin' you, whaddya gonna do about it, Sixer? Gimme extra bacon?" Stan watches his brother move back to the stove, his eyes glued on his ass for a bit, and oh the slip of his slacks doesn't go unnoticed either, but instead of chiding him for it, Stan just continues to eat.

 

He is feeling a bit full. Proper hunger hadn't really had the chance to set in before his nose had drawn him to the kitchen, but that little fact doesn't stop him from eating; in fact, he's showing off a bit, knowing full well that Ford is watching, he swallows down whole fried eggs just to get under his skin, gulping them down like a lizard. They slide down his throat easy, coated in a layer of grease as they are.

 

Ford very nearly puts his hand on a burner, he's so distracted and mesmerized by watching Stan swallow eggs whole like a snake, and a heavy pulse starts up between his legs. The front of the apron is tented out ever so slightly, and Ford cracks the other six eggs into the pan to let them fry  as he sets to filling a second plate, aiming to measure Stan's progress by plates. This one has six bacon-pancakes, not as fluffy or big as the ones on the first plate but they're more dense and there are more of them, followed by an onion-potato hash on the side, and the six eggs to follow as they finish one by one.

 

And every few moments he glances over at Stan again to track his progress, aching in his slacks as he watches him eat his way through a breakfast that would have been hefty on its own, even without the previous night's glut already weighing him down.

 

Stan finishes off the first stack of pancakes and the few straggling sausages, dipping them in thick maple syrup, coating them and making them more palatable for swallowing; he'd been confident when he'd first sat down, but after half a dozen eggs and the heavy weight of those pancakes, his gut is starting to feel more weighty in his lap, straining at the fabric of his tee shirt already.

 

The second plate, he eats with less gusto, taking it slow at first. This time, he doesn't try and show off with his eggs, eating them bite by bite with forkfuls of pancake and bacon, all drenched in pancake syrup which sticks heavy in his mouth, and glues his teeth together practically.

 

Halfway through the second plate, he sits back and lets his hand fall to his belly, the impact makes an almost hollow sound as his splayed palm lands on his drumlike gut, the sides of which are bulging against his shirt now.

 

"Got anything to drink?" He asks, belching into his fist. Stan's eyes flicker down to Ford's groin, where he can see his brother is excited for what's to come, and he can't help the smirk that tugs at his mouth.

 

Ford sets down a big glass of apple juice for his brother, cold enough to make his teeth ache a bit when he takes a drink, and he adjusts the front of his slacks again as he returns to the counter to put together yet another plate. This one is lighter on the pancakes, with only six flapjacks about the size of a sand dollar, easy for popping in your mouth whole, but he adds a heaping second serving of hash, and two thick half-foot sausages with casings that snap and promises of grease to wash them down.

 

He leans back against the counter and gropes himself through his slacks once before slipping his hand under his apron. There's no hiding what he's doing, and he isn't even trying to-- the tease is the fact that his apron is obscuring the view as his hand rubs and squeezes his package over his clothes, and he groans lowly as he watches Stan keep eating, the third plate prepared for when he finishes.

 

Stan watches him openly, but he seems less confident than he had last night, cheeks burning under the scrutiny of Ford's longing gaze. Gulping back another mouthful or two of juice, he settles in and demolishes what's left of the bacon pancakes, his stomach churning now. Maybe he'd underestimated just how stuffed he still is, but Stan's never been one to shy away from a challenge, so he finishes off the rest of the second plate, eating with gusto.

 

When Ford ferries the third plate to him, Stan almost stops him, wanting nothing more than to touch him while he eats, but his brother manages to elude him, so Stan sits back in his seat and glances down at the plate, seemingly a bit daunted now.

 

His belly is arcing off his body now, dark shirt clinging to him, with just a little strip of skin visible where the hem should meet his jeans. To steel himself, he gulps down more apple juice, wetting his throat, and he prepares to dig in.

 

"Did you go out sometime last night to get all this while I was in a food coma?" Stan inquires, wondering just where all this sausage and hash had come from, unless Ford had been squirreling them away for a rainy day. He cuts a too-big bite from one of the six inch sausages and pockets it in his cheek, shoving some hash in there for good measure and he chews lazily.

 

"I woke up early," Ford answers, leaning against the table just out of reach, watching with hazy, dark eyes as Stan absolutely gorges himself for the second time in two days. The diet will have to get stricter for the next few days to make up for this, but... it's worth it, frankly. Ford licks his lips and palms himself over his apron again, his nostrils flaring and jaw flexing as he watches his brother swallow bite after heavy bite. "God, Stanley..."

 

He grabs the jug from the counter and leans over Stan again to refill his glass, and rests his other hand on his belly, pushing slightly just to feel how hard it is. His brother's gut is practically a boulder, rock solid and gurgling pleasantly under his palm as it fights to work through the weight of everything that Stan has consumed so rapidly.

 

"That's you, the early bird gettin' the worm . . ." Stan trails off, leaning back in his seat when Ford presses that hand against him, and Stan looks up at him, flushed red and sweating through his breakfast, his stomach heaving under Ford's hand. When his brother has righted himself again, Stan ruins his good posture by tugging on his apron and slamming his lips against Ford's.

 

Unsurprisingly, Stan tastes like maple syrup and sausage spice, the lingering sweetness of juice somewhere mixed in with all that. He deepens the kiss and takes a moment to paw at the front of Ford's apron, feeling his stiff cock through the fabric; but he releases him from the kiss soon enough, his cheeks burning, hair sticking to his forehead.

 

Ford is practically drooling by the time he pulls back, gripping Stan's shoulders with both hands. He runs his hands through his hair to rake it back off his face and rocks his hips into his brother's big groping hand, gritting his teeth in pleasure as it overcomes him.

 

"Fuck, Stanley-- you can't get off the hook this easy-- you need to finish... finish eating..." he groans out, his chin dropping to his chest as he fights the urge to just stand there and let Stan jack him off at the breakfast table.

 

"Maybe I can't get off that easy, but you sure can." He teases, and his hand massages more insistently; with Ford braced on his shoulders, his hand full of his package, Stan lifts the fork with his free hand and shovels more food into his mouth.

 

As he chews, he makes little noises of appreciation, humming and groaning between bites. He keeps his hands busy, one groping Ford through three layers of fabric, the other busily shoving food in his mouth; and he's still tenderly massaging his brother when he finishes half the plate and reaches for his glass, sucking down several heafty mouthfuls of juice before pulling it away with a low, rolling belch, then he back for a few more gulps.

 

Stan drains the glass down to just its dregs, the syrupy juice taking up more than its fair share of space in his packed gut, but he keeps on eating, alternating taking bites and rubbing Ford through his slacks.

 

Ford is openly panting, his cock throbbing in Stan's grip, and his hips rut shallowly forward against his palm, nearly losing the will to keep his knees locked upright as a heavy throb shoots up into his stomach. He watches Stan take the last bite from the third plate and moans out loud, his cock aching as he nearly loses his composure right into his slacks.

 

"I have to get you more," he gasps out, more of his weight supported by his hand on Stan's shoulder with each passing second, his hands shaking as he leans into the groping despite his words

 

Stan's chuckle is low against Ford's ear as he leans up, supporting him with the strength of his shoulders, his hand working his brother's cock over from top to bottom through his slacks, an annoying barrier between them. Leaning up just a little, he growls into his ear, "You better, Sixer. I'm not full yet."

 

Ford finally manages to tear away, but if he thought he was hard before, now walking feels like an absolute chore. He adjusts the crotch of his pants again as he approaches the counter, and he piles the rest of the hash onto a fourth plate as the third joins the stack, followed by four more of those big, thick pancakes that would fill up an ordinary person on a regular day just by themselves. He lays down the last foot of sausage remaining, and the rest of the bacon-- rounding off to a full pound just by itself. His cock gives another heavy throb at the thought of how fucking full Stanley is, and he has to grip the side of the counter when his knee almost gives out with pleasure.

 

He sets the heavy plate down in front of Stan, and refills his juice one more time, the half-gallon already halfway drained on top of everything else, and he leans back against the table just out of range of Stan's grabbing hands. He hikes the apron up and bites the bottom hem, tugging open his belt in plain sight and sliding his hand down teasingly into his pants, just to give Stan a show while Stanley, in turn, gives him one.

 

Stan's just laughing under his breath at how desperate Ford looks, leaned against the table, pawing at himself, but he's one to laugh; he's just as desperate for release as Ford is, hard as rock in his jeans, his heavy gut bearing down on him.

 

Instead of hunching over his plate this time, Stan sits back in the chair, which creaks again at the shift, and he takes the plate with him, settling it on the massive curve of his stuffed gut, where he begins to eat, taking his time with it now, not only to give Ford a show, but because he's having some difficulty breathing now, and he needs to take things slow in order to pack the rest of the food away.

 

He doesn't even bother with a fork for the foot long sausage this time, he just lifts it to his mouth and tears a generous bite from it, sighing softly under his breath; his belly gives a squeaky sort of groaning creak when he swallows, a stitch forming in one of his bulging sides. His black tee is riding up now, a strip of fuzzy skin visible just above his belt line.

 

Looking up is when he realizes Ford is watching him intently, rubbing his cock in slow motions. His brother's red face in turn makes Stan's tinge a deeper crimson, and his eyes are forced to dart away, glancing back down at the plate as he tears another bite out of the sausage.

 

"My god, Stanley," Ford grits out, his teeth still clenched around the apron, panting as he visibly strokes himself beneath the obstruction of his slacks and briefs. Stan can't actually see his cock, but he can see the purposeful stroke of Ford's hand moving forward and back. His pace is leisurely, he doesn't want to get off too quickly, he wants to be able to watch to completion.

 

"Are you getting full?" he asks, his eyes darting from Stan's flushed face to his wet mouth, down to his belly showing underneath his shirt, unable to cover him completely anymore. "Do you think you can even finish that plate?"

 

"Wh-what kinda question is that, of course I can finish it." Despite his confident words, Stan gives a long, roaring belch that gives him pause, just because the force at which it had been expelled from his throat had been painful, to say the least. He pounds his chest, and another few, unsatisfactory wet burps bubble out of him.

 

"I'm gonna finish it." He says again, this time it's more of a statement of his mission than a defense, but even Stan isn't sure now. Breathing is getting to be difficult, and his shirt isn't hiding much of the absolute sphere his gut has become, so big he looks like he's gained twenty pounds or so in just the last hour.

 

To show he's serious, Stan finishes the rest of the foot-long roll of sausage, and grabs his fork; and then he tips the plate back toward his mouth and just starts shoveling hash into his gullet, one massive mouthful at a time, barely stopping to breath.

 

Ford shoves his pants down now, giving up all pretenses of teasing or hiding in favor of being able to stroke his cock openly. It's weeping freely as he watches Stan devour what remains of his massive breakfast, and giving a slick, wet sound as his hips jut forward to fuck into his fist.

 

"Stanely," he gasps, dropping the apron from his teeth so he can moan open-mouthed, and with his other hand he rucks his apron and sweater up his belly, flexing tightly with pleasure as he quickly jerks his cock, completely overtaken by the sight of Stan, so stuffed he can barely sit upright, swallowing bites like he's a starving man.

 

Once all the hash is gone, all that's left is the pancakes and slab of bacon, but there's a serious stitch in Stan's side that needs tending, so he sets the plate down with a heavy thunk and sits back, hiking up the shirt which is now stretched thin and tight over his gut.

 

"Agh I'm so full . . ." Stan mumbles, running his hand in wide circles over the girth of his gut--it stands off of him now, full and straining at his ribs, his lovehandles more pronounced now and the whole affair sits so heavy on his lap that he has to spread his legs to make room for it.

 

He rubs with both hands, trying to fend off the growing ache in his sides, but every time he sucks in a breath, it feels like his stomach just gets tighter and tighter. A few burps work their way out of him, he just lets his head fall back against the chair, sucking in shallow breathes, his spherical midsection heaving with its own weight.

 

"Bedroom," Ford gasps, wiping his hand off on his cock. "I'll feed you on the bed."

 

He lets his apron fall back down in front of him, which leaves him with a very pronounced tent, and he grabs the plate and the remaining apple juice, carrying them off so he can take separate trips. Getting Stan to the second floor is an ordeal, with his weight as thrown off kilter as it is, but Ford manages to help him waddle upstairs and down the hall before sinking heavily down on the bed.

 

Once he's on his back, Ford lovingly undoes his belt, which relieves enormous pressure from the underside of his gut, and tugs his jeans and boxers down and off, followed by his own until he's in just his sweater and the apron. His cock slaps wetly against his thigh, bright red and dripping, and his gut sticks straight upright like it's been inflated with air, perfectly round and completely stuffed from top to bottom. Ford bites his lip as he crawls up the bed with the plate in hand, and sits right across Stan's lap, trapping his cock against Ford's apron-clad thigh as he picks up one of the thick pancakes, folding it in half and dragging it through syrup before offering it to his beached brother.

 

Syrup drips onto Stan's chin before he can take the bite proper, but he doesn't care--he takes half the pancake in one go, still hungry, the need to finish and be filled completely driving him to eat and eat. The next bite he takes before he's even finished the first, and it goes that way until he's finished off that first thick cake, and Ford is offering the next to his lips.

 

Laid on his back, propped up on pillows, Stan's having a hard time breathing due the weight of his absolutely stuffed gut, so occasionally he'll suck in a loud drag of air between bites, pawing now and again at his weighty cock.

 

He wants desperately to tease Ford, but under him, helpless as he is, he doesn't feel like he's in a position to do so, especially with the big breakfast making him so lightheaded. In fact, he's eaten so much that once he's laid up in bed, eating from his brother's fingers, he's absolutely obedient, his teasing gone, replaced only by the achey pop of his jaw and a completely, cherry red face.

 

When two of the heavy pancakes are gone, Ford switches gears and gives Stanley a break with the easy, salty crisp of bacon. Compared to how weighty every bite of the pancakes are, it's easy for him to breeze through the bacon, crunching happily on the crispy bits and slurping the softer, chewy fat right up. It's incredible how quickly Stan can eat when he's distracted, and the gentle roll of Ford's hips, grinding their cocks together, is the perfect distraction.

 

With the bacon completed, a full pound of it is now tucked away inside Stanley, and he feels the consequences of that much food keenly. It hadn't seemed like a lot when he was nibbling on the thin, crispy meat, but now that he's finished and he has a moment to breathe, he can feel the weight of it sitting on top of everything else, crushing down into his pelvic floor like a bowling ball sitting in his guts.

 

One hand is glued to Stan's side, trying to take some of the ache out of his stomach, but the point is probably moot by this stage. The break is well recieved, Stanley just longues back against the bed, his eyes fluttering closed now and again, just basking in the feeling of being pampered like this, which isn't too common given the dynamic between them.

 

When he feels rested enough, Stan nods to the pancakes and eats with devotion from Ford's fingers, grinding up against his cock when he can make his hips work. Burps escape between bites, and it's no surprise at all when he occasionally tastes bile at the back of his throat, but he swallows it down and powers through the final two pancakes, laughing triumphantly when they're gone.

 

"Ha! I told ya I could eat all of it." Stan slurs, trying to sound triumphant, but he's a little too placid for it.

 

Ford sets the plate aside on the bedside table, and reverently rubs his slightly sticky hands up Stanley's towering ball gut. He rucks his shirt up to rest around his chest, and runs his fingertips along the veritable seam where Stan's gut arches off his body, as if it'd been welded there in place. He pulls the shirt back down, as far as it will go, biting his lip when it doesn't even cover halfway in this position.

 

"God, Stanley," he whispers. "You're huge...."

 

Stan laughs, "Ya really know how to compliment a guy."

 

The ache in his stomach is only matched by the one pulsing in his cock, which is hard and leaking up the underside of his massive gut. Wetting his lips with a pass of his tongue, Stan's blue eyes flicker up to Ford's face, dark with need, his cheeks completely crimson.

 

"Ya look so enamored." He swallows thickly, sighing to catch his breath, his gut rising into Ford's open palms. "If I knew it was this easy to get your attention, I woulda eaten the fridge awhile ago."

 

With Ford's hands still glued to his tummy, Stan lets his own rest on the gorged sides of his gut. "I don't think I've been this big in . . . ever."

 

Ford smiles earnestly and climbs off Stan's lap, untying his apron and tossing it aside. He leaves the sweater on, but that's not a surprise-- sometimes he's pretty self conscious about the scars. He gently urges Stan over onto his side and curls up behind him, propping himself up on one elbow. He loops his forearm under Stan's neck, making sure his head is supported by a pillow, and reaches around him to ruck the shirt back up, rubbing his hand in wide circles over his massive gut.

 

"I think you're right," he leans down to kiss the side of Stan's neck, nibbling his ear. "I think this is the biggest you've ever been... how does it feel?"

 

"Well your hands feel great." Stan says, settling back against Ford's solid frame. "Feelin' kinda fuzzy headed, like I could just go to sleep right here and be content." Testingly, he grinds his ass against Ford's groin, feeling the hardness of his cock against him. "If you wanna fuck, I'm gonna need a little break before ya ride me, Sixer."

 

Ford groans, burying his face in the side of Stan's neck, grinding his hips forward when Stan ruts his hips shallowly back, and his cock slots into the valley between his cheeks, rubbing against the soft hair there. "God," he whispers reverently, rutting against that hot space as his hand slides down off Stanley's gut to grip his cock instead, stroking him leisurely from base to tip in time with his rolling hips, entranced by the feeling of his brother's cheeks flanking his cock.

 

Stan's toes curl, he huffs out a breath through his nose and spreads his thighs just a little, trapping Ford's cock between his cheeks and he ruts against him, skin slicking as precome flows freely from Ford's cock. His breath is soft, and at the sound of his brother's broken voice whispering a curse, Stan's own breaks and he mutters a swear of his own.

 

In the quiet, his belly churcn and grumbles noisily, high whines and low rumbles filling the silence along with their quiet breathing. His hand finds the stuffed curve of his gut and he lets it wander, still in awe over just how big he is, it's Ford's handiwork, without a doubt.

 

"Stanley," Ford groans, rocking his hips until he's fucking between his brother's cheeks in slow, even strokes, his cockhead brushing the back of Stan's balls with every pass. "Please-- can I fuck you, I need-- please let me fuck you..." he gasps out, peppering wet kisses along his throat between words, squeezing his fingertips over Stan's cockhead on every upstroke.

 

Stan's voice is gruff when he replies, "Please . . . God, please fuck me."

 

He's desperate too, and it's been awhile since he allowed himself to be taken care of in this way, usually he's the one in charge, but he's too big and too overwhelmed to be of much use in that way now.

 

Ford moves like Stan burned him, rolling over to grab their lube from the bedside table, and he's already squeezing it out on his fingers as he takes his position back behind Stan, his cock throbbing with anticipation for what's about to come. He hasn't actually topped Stan in a long, long time, a fact which has always suited both of them just fine. But right now, Ford would sell his soul if that's what it took to fuck Stan.

 

He slides one wet finger inside his brother, twisting his hand so his folded fingers stay out of the way as he probes up inside of him with the kind of clinical accuracy he uses on himself when he milks his own prostate, eager to feel Stan clench around him as soon as he strokes that pleasure spot. Stan's arms immediately find the pillow he's propped on, and his whole body becomes rigid, knees popping and toes curling.

 

"Agh . . . Sixer, fuck . . . _fuck_ . . ." he writhes a little, trying to get comfortable. It's been a long time since someone has touched him like this--the few times Stan has pressed his own fingers inside he could count on his hand, but it's different, feeling Ford's slick, practiced digit slip deep inside and press to that spot with alarming diligence. Stan's cock jolts upright, squirting a copious wash of precome over the underside of his belly.

 

"Stanford, fuck. **Fuck!** " He squeezes the pillow in his vice grip, the seams creaking, fabric threatening to rip between his fingers. The walls of his hole clench and flutter, and he presses back against Ford's hand, trying to feel him as deep as possible. His face is so hot and red, sweat pouring down his brow.

 

"I've got you," Ford rumbles in his ear, massaging his middle finger against the spot with laser focus. Stan's stuffed belly gurgles and churns ominously as the younger twin's body trembles on the mattress, and Ford easily opens him up for a second finger, stretching into him wetly to rub against that spot again with purpose.

 

He licks his lips, nibbling marks into Stan's throat, kissing up to his ear as he thrusts and probes his fingers inside Stanley, scissoring and twisting his fingers open inside his brother's trembling hole. His own cock aches, desperate to slide into Stan and fuck him, but patience is key when fingering open a self-conscious 60-something who hasn't bottomed in decades.

 

Stan's back goes rigid, but he leans into Ford, trying desperately to calm himself as those fingers fill him again and again. It's hard getting back in that headspace, letting someone else in for a change, allowing his walls and guarded personality to drop and just be vulnerable for a few moments.

 

His voice cracks as he begs for more, hands fumbling to remove his glasses--they land on the bedside table, crooked and nearly falling off, but their absence allows him to press his face into the pillow and grind back against Ford's hand.

 

It's not that it hurts, quite the opposite, it feels good but almost too good. The press of Ford's fingers against his prostate brings forth a hot, heavy pressure in Stan's guts that has nothing to do with his stuffed belly, and it's all he can do to rut back against the sensations, trying to find a natural pace in the twist of his hips meeting Ford's fingers.

 

" _God_ , Stanford . . ."

 

Ford can feel how completely soft Stan has gone, pliant and wet and sticky and aching to be filled, his hole fluttering in desperation around his brother's fingers, and he knows he's ready. He pulls his fingers out and strokes the remaining lube over his cock before adding an extra dollop for good measure, guiding his cockhead to Stan's slack hole.

 

With barely a whisper of pressure, Stan's hole spreads to accept his brother. Ford sets his teeth into Stan's shoulder through his shirt, groaning in pleasure as he slides his hips forward until they meet his brother's ass, pressed in as tight against him as he can fit. He circles his wet hand around to grab Stan by the cock, stroking the excess onto his length as he shallowly grinds his hips inside his brother.

 

"Oh god, Stanley..." he pants out, weak from head to toe just from the sensation of Stan's hot insides wrapped around his cock like a vice.

 

Ford, hilted into him, feels like he's splitting Stan in two. It really has been a long time. Stan's heaving breath could fog up the windows. It takes some work to grind back against his brother, wedging his ass against him, the throb of Ford's cock inside feels so good, he can't get enough of it.

 

"Stanford . . . shit, you feel-- _shit_." He buries his nose into the pillow again and gives a genuine whine of pleasure, grinding his hips down against Ford's.

 

Ford's damp hand slides up over Stan's belly to grab and grope his chest, taking a handful of his soft pectoral and squeezing as he rocks his hips a bit faster, slowly edging up to proper fucking. He buries his face in Stan's shoulder, panting down his back, groaning loudly between his teeth as he savors the sweet ache of his brothers too-tight channel squeezing the ever loving hell out of him.

 

"I have you," Ford whispers hoarsely, looping his arm back under Stan's neck to grab him by the forehead, lifting his head up and back against his shoulder so he can listen to every sweet noise he makes as Ford fucks into him with increasing speed.

 

Stanley's face is so red, his forehead clammy on Ford's fingers. Twisted around as he is, there's a stitch in his side, but he ignores it and meets every thrust of his brother's with one in kind, momentum picking up between them. His breath is coming ragged and hard now, made worse by the pounds of food crammed into his heavy gut, which is so tight it doesn't even sag onto the bed, it's just jutting off his body like a monolithic monument to their debauchery.

 

He's starting to relax at last, his hole slick and hot around Ford's cock. Needy, whimpering groans leave Stan, he's flustered beyond reason, mouth hanging open in an expression of total and complete bliss, his brows furrowed deeply. "Stanford . . . please, kiss me. I need your mouth--somethin'. Please!"

 

Ford leans up on his elbow so he can lean out over his brother, and grips his leg under the knee to lift it and keep his ass at a good angle to fuck shallowly into as he seals his mouth against Stan's. He still tastes like maple and bacon, a sweet combination on Ford's tongue as he slides it into his mouth, probing past his teeth with the same intensity and pace of his snapping hips.

 

He can't believe how good Stanley feels. He'd taken the opposite role for his brother for so many years that a cynical part of him half-convinced him that this side couldn't possibly feel as good as getting fucked in half, but clearly he's been kidding himself. He groans into Stan's mouth, his hips slapping against his brother's rump as he fucks into him with hard, quick strokes, their skin clapping together noisily and almost drowning out the slick sounds of Ford's cock stirring the lube into a slick froth.

 

Stan's tongue flickers against his brother's, tasting him eagerly. The glide is quick now, and Stan is dizzy with their fucking, losing his grip on the ability to remain rigid, his body pliant to Ford's motions so his knee is crooked easily and without resistence. Even his mouth is slack as he kisses back, hungry but tired, in great need of release.

 

"I'm gettin' close . . ." Stanley rumbles against his brother's lips. He can hardly believe how good this feels, his thoughts mirroring Ford's. It's been so long since he'd allowed himself to be in this position, that some part of him had gotten convinced along the way that it couldn't possibly feel good anymore. Oh how wrong he'd been.

 

"Me too..." Ford gasps, resting his forehead against Stan's as he braces his knee and spreads his toes on the blankets to give him the right leverage to fuck his brother senseless. He releases his knee in favor of grabbing his cock again, stroking him in time with his deep, hard fucking. He would roll Stan over onto his belly if he wasn't sure he'd probably vomit, so instead he just lays on his shoulder and wraps the arm underneath Stan's neck around so he can grab him by the opposite shoulder, molding against the curves of his back and thrusting from his middle back in fluid, arcing curves.

 

"Come, Stanley, come for me-- you're so good, Stanley, you're so fucking good--" he presses kisses, whispering hoarse praise into the side of Stan's neck.

 

That's what does him in. Well, those words, and the deep ping of Ford's cock against his prostate. With his brother's hand flying over his prick, Stan cries out, his voice going pitched and cracking as ropes of come spill over his belly, and his body flutters and clenches around Ford's cock, the spasms tugging him deeper, the rigidness of his body milking him for all he's worth.

 

"Stanford! You--! **Agh** . . ." Stan's head falls onto the pillow and he just ruts mindlessly back against Ford's hips, spent and tired, shaking slightly with exertion.

 

Ford isn't far behind, fucking Stanley for all he's worth through his climax and chasing him over the edge just moments later. His hips snap with deep thrusts, pounding into Stan as he fucks through his own orgasm, until finally the spasms stop and it becomes more trouble than its worth to keep thrusting.

 

The two of them sag absolutely boneless into the sheets, trembling and exhausted together, and absolutely, bone-deep satisfied. "Fuck..." Ford wheezes, resting his forehead against Stan's shoulder, still buried inside him, reveling in the feeling of Stan's pulse throbbing in his ass, flexing weakly around his cock.

 

With a shiver, he pulls out and collapses on his side beside Stanley, curling up behind him and looping an arm over his waist to drag his hand over his swollen tummy, gurgling away and drowning out the sound of their combined breaths.

 

"Jesus, Ford..." Stan mumbles, and then hiccups with a miserable groan.

 

Ford just smiles, and nuzzles into the back of Stan's neck. Worth it, it was absolutely worth it.


End file.
